


Nothing but Memory

by AstriferousSprite



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cooking, Gen, Minor Character Death, and then you cry, you ever remember how bodhi/chirrut/baze canonically survived a genocide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-16 22:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstriferousSprite/pseuds/AstriferousSprite
Summary: An old family recipe resurfaces in his dreams, and Bodhi panics.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bodhi Rook week, with the theme _Jedha._ [This recipe](http://kfoods.com/article/make-sindhi-biryani-recipe_a291) was partially referenced.

_“Now watch,” she says, “this is how you fabricate a chicken.”_

_Bodhi watches with wide eyes as his mother pulls out the bird’s wings and chops them off. “You always cut around the joints,” she explains. “You don’t want useable meat left on the carcass.” She continues her work, snapping the bird’s legs and cutting them off, before separating them into legs and thighs._

_“Now, the breast.” She flips the carcass over, revealing the smooth flesh on its back. “This is the part we’re using tonight, so make sure to take off as much meat as you can.” Her knife glides across the chicken’s back, pulling off the thick, juicy breast. “Now, we’ll cut it up and fry it—make sure the pan’s hot before you put oil in it, dear—and when it’s cooked all the way through, we can pour the sauce we made over it.”_

_“And that’s all?” he asks, watching as his mother cuts the breast into cubes. He’s only twelve, and every new lesson fills him with wonder._

_“Along with the rice you made, that’s all.” She turns her attention away from the two hot pans on the stove to focus on the small, lidded pot. “Is the rice ready?”_

_“Um—I mean, I think so?”_

_Mother pulls the lid off, releasing clouds of steam. She frowns. “Hand me a fork.”_

_Nervously, he passes her one. She stirs the rice with it, shaking her head all the while. “It’s burnt,” she says. “How much rice did you put in?”_

_“…a cup,” he says, looking down._

_“And how much water?”_

_“A cup, too.”_

_“Aha.” She nods, pulling the pot off the stove. “Remember, Bodhi, rice is always thirsty; it soaks up water like a sponge. Next time, add twice as much water as rice, ok?”_

_Distantly, he hears static._

_“Yes, mama,” he says, head bowed in shame._

_The static grows louder._

_“I suppose we’ll have to feed this to the chickens,” she says, then ruffles her son’s head. “Oh, don’t worry. We all make mistakes in the kitchen.”_

_Just then, the doors swing open. Bodhi jumps, turning to face the squadron of Stormtroopers standing in their small house._

_“Jedhan,” they say, pointing their guns at the stove. “Jedhan.”_

_And fire._

_The burnt rice goes down first, sending long white pellets raining down upon them as the pot falls. Bodhi trembles as they target the pot of sauce next, trying not to scream even as hot liquid hits his arms and burns._

_Picking up flame throwers, they burn the separated chicken; burn Mama’s old family notebook with seven generations of handwritten recipes; burn the spice cabinet, as clouds of cumin and jasmine-scented smoke threaten to suffocate them._

_Finally, they turn their blasters onto Mama, fiercely holding onto her son’s shoulders. He can’t see it, but Bodhi knows she’s crying._

_“Jedhan,” they say, emotionless, and kill her._

 

Bodhi woke up gasping.

 _It’s just a dream,_ he told himself, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. _Just a dream. Mom didn’t die like that, right? She was still alive when I left … And besides, Stormtroopers would never do that, it’s so inefficient. They’d rather just take out the entirety of Jedha._

_Jedha…_

Bodhi gasped. Even a week after the destruction of the Death Star, the memory of Jedha continued to haunt him. Tonight had been no kinder—letting a recipe he had long forgotten resurface.

“Damn it.” How much of his culture had he already forgotten? If he could hardly remember to make a simple chicken dish, what did that say about the language, the rituals, the ceremonies and prayers? How much more would he lose? “Damn it!”

The thought of him losing his culture sent him getting up in a panic. “No more,” he whispered like a mantra as he slipped his shoes on and left the quarters. He could not allow himself to forget.

 

Which was how Baze found him in the galley at precisely 0312, fretting over sauce.

“Two to one, two to one,” he was mumbling, throwing pots and pans onto the stove as he hastily gathered up ingredients. “More water than rice, remember?” In a frenzy, he threw ingredients around, picked up a knife, and began chopping. “Wait, how many potatoes, how many potatoes? _Shit!_ ” He hissed as the knife hit his finger, and immediately lifted it to his mouth. “Four, right? Shit, no, it’s three, four, no, three, damn it, _damn it—_ ”

“Son?” Bodhi dropped the knife, whipping around to see Baze in his sleep clothes, looking utterly confused. “What are you doing?”

Panic flooded his body again. “Potatoes,” he whispered. “No, wait! Biryani—I’m _cooking,_ ” he said, turning back to the cutting board. “I’m just cooking—”

“It’s three in the morning.”

Bodhi froze. “I just…”

“Why?” asked Baze, with no (noticeable) judgement on his face.

“I…” Bodhi looked down. “I didn’t want to forget Jedha.”

“Ah.” Baze looked at the young man folding into himself. “Let me help you, son.”

 _Wait._ “Are you sure—”

“I can’t sleep, might as well,” he said, shrugging.

Soon, Bodhi had a diligent sous-chef at his side. Baze helped him with the oil and ingredients, giving him short reminders such as “three potatoes, four’s too much,” and “chicken’s on the bottom shelf.” Within minutes, the pan of Biryani was cooking, cheerfully popping every few seconds.

“Rice looks good,” said Baze, replacing the lid and removing the pot of rice from the heat. “How’s the chicken?”

Bodhi blinked back tears as he looked at the pot. “Looks good,” he said. “It…”

He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. “Kriff, it smells like home.”

Baze grunted. Somehow, Bodhi got the feeling his jaw was more tense than usual. “Jedha.” Thankfully, his next words were not about their destroyed home. “What now?”

“Strain the rice,” said Bodhi, thankful for the recollection.

Baze nodded, fetching the strainer and pouring the rice into it. “Now?”

“Now we’re adding it to the pan and raising the heat until it steams.”

Baze did that, and Bodhi watched carefully as the Biryani finished cooking. “Perfect,” he whispered, pulling it off the heat.

The two of them ate in relative silence, with the hum of the flagship as background noise. Personally, Bodhi felt like there wasn’t enough spice (of the seasoning variety—he wasn’t partial to spiked cuisine), but it was better than he had expected.

After a while, Baze spoke. “Thank you.”

“For what?” asked Bodhi.

“For this.” Baze gestured to the plates of food. “For remembering.”

Bodhi nodded, feeling himself tear up again. “Even if it’s not…”

“My culture,” he finished. He sat back in his chair. “Back in the temple, we had a lot of different people from across Jedha. They brought their culture with them, their language, their food.” He gestured back at the plates, by now empty. “When I saw this, it reminded me of the temple. Of Jedha. That we are still alive.”

Bodhi blinked back tears, trying to think of the old temple, with its arched entrance and constantly-ringing bells. He imagined the guardians going about their life, surrounded by the different cultures of Jedha at every turn. To think the Empire had carelessly destroyed it all…

He couldn’t do this. “I’ll just,” he said, standing up and picking up their plates, “I’ll just get started on the dishes, then?”

Baze grunted as they moved to the sink. The galley aboard the _Home One_ had a proper dishwasher, which made the process go about a lot quicker. Bodhi found himself lost in the task of spraying dishes and loading them onto the rack, while Baze waited diligently at the other hand, drying and putting them back in their place. The efficiency of their work and the small number of dishes they had (a pot, a pan, two plates, some bowls) meant that the entire process of cleaning up took less than five minutes.

“Thanks for helping out,” said Bodhi as soon as they finished, packaging the last of the Biryani.

“You’re welcome,” grunted Baze. “Can I take some back? It was delicious. Chirrut will love it.”

Bodhi felt a lump in his throat. “Oh.”

Baze turned to him, setting his towel down. “Come here, son.”

Bodhi walked over to Baze, and was immediately enveloped in a hug. Shakily, he hugged back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Baze in a brittle voice. “I miss Jedha too.” Bodhi held on tighter. “It hurts, and every day I worry that I’ll forget. That everyone will forget.” He took a deep breath. “But we can’t forget. We’re Jedhan, remember that. The Empire can take our home, but they can’t take our lives.”

For a while, they stayed like that, grieving, remembering.

Baze patted his back as they separated. “We should do this again.”

“Just not at three in the morning,” said Bodhi, already feeling more uplifted.

He chuckled. “Yeah, not at three.”

Hope lingered in his heart as he took some of the Biryani with him and bid Baze a good night/morning. Force, he would not let his culture disappear.

As long as he remembered, Jedha would never die.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on the tungle [@lesbiangffa](http://lesbiangffa.tumblr.com)


End file.
